


Fire That Did Not Burn

by ceresilupin



Series: The Lights in the Shadow [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Battle, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Everyone Being Awesome, F/M, Gen, Lots of Background Ships, Lyrium Addiction, Venatori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3109619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The enemy is interested in taking Cullen and turning him to their side; despite advanced warning, the Inquisition is unprepared for their attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning -- this gets pretty violent, lots of hurt and suffering on the parts of the main characters. Not in these first two parts, but further on. Non-con warning is for Cullen's flashbacks to Kinloch.
> 
> This is a sequal of sorts to an earlier fic, [Fire Is Her Water](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3098906). Some of the events described there are referenced here, so it might be confusing if you haven't read it. This title is also from the Chant of Light, [The Canticle of Maferath](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_The_Canticle_of_Maferath)
> 
> Another kink meme fill: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11864.html?thread=46830424#t46830424

Cullen’s office was a busy place, much more so than Leliana’s rookery or Josephine’s study. Despite the birds, Leliana’s realm was always hushed and cramped, what with the giant hole in the floor. Josephine’s study was a breath of airy, spacious calm, always tidy and brightly lit. Neither of them admitted much of anyone into their spaces – Leliana because she was a spy, and Josephine because it wasn’t proper.

Cullen, however, had a constant, hectic stream of guards and soldiers in his office. Not only did the patrols use it as a shortcut in poor weather, but pages and runners were constantly galloping in and out, bringing news from the valley or dropping off messages about provisions, reports, and skirmishes. When he wasn’t working on paperwork, usually calculations for supply lines and training exercises, Cullen was meeting with Captains and Sergeants alike. Soldiers decorated for valor or censured for laziness received commendations and demerits alike at his desk. Even grieving families met with him, as he personally saw to the funeral arrangements of soldiers killed in the line.

Evelyn was proud of Cullen, but his business made arranging meetings an ordeal. Sunset was usually a good time, when the shifts were changing and a new flood of visitors had yet to appear. The only problem was that these lull periods were also when Cullen disappeared up his ladder to catnap.

As Inquisitor, Evelyn could simply request some time and Cullen would usher everyone out, banishing visitors for however long it took. Or, if he was sleeping, he would drag himself out of bed and down the ladder, regardless of the hour. So, in theory, meeting should be easy. But no matter how official her meetings with Cullen were, they felt like an indulgence, and she would never use her authority as Inquisitor for a _personal_ matter. And she certainly didn’t want him to lose sleep.

The end result was that Evelyn felt excited and guilty for each brief, rushed encounter, and spent far too much time afterwards thinking about his wry, apologetic smile when they were inevitably interrupted. Without more time to talk, she couldn’t get a handle on her own feelings, let alone his. And so the tentative, half-spoken of thing between them remained . . . tentative and half-spoken.

Once again, she approached with an official excuse and a swelter of too-intense emotions. The sun was sinking below the castle walls, peeking between the crenellations in glancing bursts of orange and red. There was a boy outside Cullen’s door, in the tunic of a page, his armor cinched tight but clearly oversized.

He straightened when he recognized the Inquisitor, his fist thumping his chest. “Your Worship!”

Evelyn smiled uncomfortably. “Good evening, recruit,” she said. “Is the Commander available?”

The boy hesitated minutely. “He requested not be disturbed for a few hours, Worship,” he said formally. Evelyn had suspected as much – the noisy chatter from the gates was an indicator of the shift change. “But of course, he is always available to you.”

Evelyn hesitated, biting her lip and glancing up at the window that looked out from Cullen’s loft. She didn’t want to disturb him, but he did need to hear about this. Especially since Leliana was planning to – well. She was not looking forward to this conversation.

She sighed, and looked back down at the page. “I’m afraid this won’t wait,” she said reluctantly.

The boy bowed, and opened the door. “Commander Cullen, ser?” he called.

Cullen’s voice came from above, surprisingly alert. “Allan?”

“The Inquisitor is here to see you, ser.”

“Let her in, lad.” The sounds of shifting and movement rang distantly.

Evelyn slipped past the page with a last awkward, apologetic smile. He stared with wide eyes, too young and nervous to be polite, and closed the door behind her.

She waited in Cullen’s office as he moved about above, noting the clutter of his desk and the piles of papers and books nearby. A patch of the office was blocked off, the floor wet with water. Apparently, Cullen didn’t have a tarp like Leliana to block off his roof, or he simply forgot. The snow must have melted and leaked downstairs, she mused, and shook her head. It would likely freeze overnight and turn into a serious hazard.

Cullen descended the ladder one rung at a time, rather than sliding. She could tell by the sound that he was still in full armor, so at least she didn’t drag the poor man from bed. Evelyn turned to him with a regretful smile. “Good evening, Commander.”

He inclined his head politely, moving to his desk. “Inquisitor. Is everything all right?”

“More or less.” Evelyn hesitated. “Did I disturb your rest?”

Cullen hesitated as well. “No, of course not,” he said. “Would you like some tea or wine?” He glanced about vaguely, rubbing the back of his neck. It was clear he had no idea where any of those things were kept – usually a page or a servant handled them, if Evelyn recalled correctly.

“I’m fine,” Evelyn assured him, smiling. Cullen eased into his chair, gesturing, and Evelyn perched in the seat across from his desk carefully.

He leaned back in the silence, stretching his shoulders and neck. His hair was ruffled on one side, and he looked tired. Evelyn wondered if she was wrong to assume she hadn’t dragged him from bed – but surely he didn’t sleep in his armor? Then again, she couldn’t think of a single time she’d seen him without it.

Cullen relaxed with a sigh. “What can I do for you, my lady?”

“I have some . . . news you’re not going to like very much,” Evelyn began cautiously.

He straightened, gloved fist clenching. “Bad news?”

“Technically, it’s good news,” she hurried to say, and he relaxed. “But it’s going to have some annoying consequences for you.”

Cullen smirked. “Ah,” he said, in understanding. “One of those. Well, let’s get it over with. Did Sera get caught raiding the storehouses again?”

Evelyn laughed a little at the reminder of Sera’s prank and the hijinks that had ensued. “Not as far as I know,” she sighed, in friendly aggravation, and Cullen chuckled sympathetically. She grew serious. “No, this is – it’s about some intercepted messages, between Corypheus and the Venatori.”

The humor drained from Cullen’s face, and he gave her a serious little nod. “I see.”

Evelyn toyed with the hem of her jerkin even as she met his eyes, mindful of the minefield her own emotions presented. Cullen had been a wonderful friend to her. She had found his looks and manner intimidating at first, almost too large for life. But he had a wry sense of humor beneath his Templar sternness, and surprisingly little ego, although he was touchy about mages and other Templars. Their fraught encounter at Haven had made things awkward, but Evelyn had been too drained to avoid him properly, and Cullen had shy but persistent in his continuing concern for her.

But after Haven, in the middle of Skyhold’s courtyard, when he spoke to her in a voice barely above a murmur about how she had stayed behind . . . well. It had sent heat arcing through her, stunning and startling in its intensity. Weeks later, watching him brace himself on his desk and stare into his little box lyrium dependence, had left her feeling careful and tender towards him. She had persuaded him that she did not want him to take lyrium, and that should have been it. But the urge to touch him, to hold him, to kiss away the weariness in his face . . . it had been overpowering. She had slipped and stroked his cheek, and the look on his face when she did—

“Leliana was recently able to interpret some codes they were struggling with,” Evelyn interrupted herself, shaking off her thoughts before her cheeks could get any redder. “It was an attempt to gather intelligence about a target for assassination, but they couldn’t figure out who the target was. Until recently.”

Cullen’s brow was furrowed. “One of your friends, Inquisitor?”

Evelyn half-smiled. “Yes. You, Cullen.”

For a moment, he clearly didn’t follow. It was clear that he didn’t consider himself as a target of assassination to be particularly alarming, which made sense – they were all targets, after all. It clearly wasn’t the ‘annoying consequence’ she had hinted at. And then light dawned.

“Ah,” he said, this time with grim, resigned amusement. “Am I about to be assigned a bodyguard of Leliana’s finest spies?“ He sighed. “I am, aren’t I?”

Evelyn smiled enigmatically.

Cullen made a fist and thumped it against his chin, thinking and scowling at nothing in particular. It was clear he was looking for a way to weasel out of being assigned a bodyguard, and Evelyn let him try. There was no way in hell she was gambling with his life, but he was welcome to try and talk her out of it. She always enjoyed bantering with him.

“Why _me_?” he finally demanded.

“Well,” Evelyn said playfully, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Cullen, but you _are_ the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. . . .”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, relaxing a bit. “Is that why people are constantly tramping through my office?” he asked, as if he hadn’t been the one to invite them there. The corner of his mouth turned up in his lopsided little smile.

Evelyn grinned outright at the sight. “No, but it _is_ why your roof leaks.”

Cullen snorted and laughed, surprised. “It probably is,” he agreed, exhaling, and then rubbed his face. “Yes, well. This is going to be . . . something.” His tone shifted to one of aggravation. “Can’t we just lure the Venatori into striking and counter-attack? I’m not comfortable hiding behind guards. Not to mention, it’s damaging for the Inquisition, the suggestion its Commander can’t defend himself.”

Evelyn shifted so that her elbows rested on the arms of her chair, mood turning serious. “It’s . . . not quite that simple,” she admitted reluctantly. Of course, he needed to know this, but she would rather not delve into the whole thing. It had been months since she’d been trapped in the dark future, but the wounds were still raw. “Leliana thought it was an assassination attempt, but I didn’t. And she’s come to agree with me.”

Cullen’s brow grew baffled. “The Venatori _don’t_ want to assassinate me,” he translated this, with an air of whole-hearted confusion. “I . . . think I might be offended. Apparently, I need to step up my game?”

“They want to kidnap you,” Evelyn corrected bluntly.

Cullen’s jaw tensed even as his lip twisted in another flash of dark amusement. Both of his hands made fists this time. Evelyn found herself holding her breath, watching him react – or rather, watching him fail to react. He was letting very little show. When he finally moved, it was to push himself out of his seat and begin pacing, thoughtful and grim.

“So this isn’t a simple murder attempt,” Cullen finally said. He paused to stare out the window that overlooked the valley, and then swiveled back to her. “This is a longer-term plan. They want to take me, turn me into one of their minions.” His lips thinned, in anger and dread. “Well, they won’t be the first. And they won’t succeed any more than the last.”

The reminder of their conversation about Kinloch Hold left her wincing. His expression grew tentative at the sight. “You have my word, Inquisitor,” he vowed, apparently misreading her flinch as doubt. “I won’t become whoever . . . _whatever_ you saw, in that dark future. I swear it.”

Now it was Evelyn’s turn to clench her fists, not to mention her gut and every other muscle in her body. “We never spoke about that,” she said hoarsely. “Aside from Haven when I . . . how did you know?”

Cullen’s eyes flickered. “You said I ‘wasn’t him’,” he reminded her. “That was all I needed to figure it out. You fought and killed me there, didn’t you?” He said this without a hint of recrimination, or even doubt; if anything, his tone was supportive and soothing.

Evelyn felt dazed, light-headed at being confronted by these memories multiple times in one day. Cullen was accepting and calm when she had expected him to be angry and snappish at what he would see as an accusation of disloyalty, and then there was the possibility of Tevinter mages capturing him, torturing him, stripping away his mind and humanity and sending him out to kill.

 _It’s not real,_ she told herself, gazing down at her knees as she struggled to even her breathing. _It’s not going to happen._ But just the possibility was enough to make her heart stutter.

There was a _reason_ she didn’t like to talk about it, dammit, and as good as Cullen’s reassurance would feel, dredging up those horrors wasn’t worth it. Normally, it wasn’t an issue – the only one who knew had been there with her, and they only referred to it obliquely, secure in a shared connection that didn’t need to be articulated. Dorian may not have known who Cullen was, then, or even known much about _her_ , but he’d seen how she reacted. He knew what that meant. And he had always looked out for her, even then when they were practically strangers.

And with that thought, she knew exactly what had happened. Her chin lifted and her gaze sharpened. “Dorian told you, didn’t he?” Over a game of chess, probably. _Dammit, Dorian!_

Caught, Cullen ducked his head, rotating his shoulders nervously. “Only because I pushed him to,” he admitted. “Inquisitor—“

Evelyn seethed quietly. “He said he wouldn’t tell _anyone_ ,” she recalled, and Cullen hesitated. With an effort, she pushed her irritation with Dorian aside. Hopefully he hadn’t been blabbing everything _else_ they talked about. . . .

“Fine, you’re right,” she says, as brusquely as possible, refusing to fall apart here. “You had been – turned, there. Poisoned by the red lyrium. You were our enemy. You didn’t even seem to recognize us.”

Cullen nodded slowly, watching her with a furrowed brow. “Yes, that’s . . . what he said.”

  
Evelyn took a deep breath. “Leliana is looking into things,” she said, getting briskly to her feet and avoiding his eyes. Cullen, still standing, straightened out of habit. It left her feeling strangely rebuffed. “We’ll detect any kidnap attempts before they happen. You’ll be safe.”

Cullen looked a bit irritated at this reassurance, or maybe her shift in mood. “I _am_ capable of protecting myself, Inquisitor.”

“Evidently not,” Evelyn reminded him curtly. Her stomach turned as he flushed, offended, and she swiveled away, wanting nothing but to escape. “Look, I must go. I’ll check in tomorrow, all right?”

When Cullen simply frowned, looking strangely discouraged, she turned to flee without another word.

~

Cullen found Dorian in the library, as usual. With a glance towards the rafters to make sure that Leliana wasn’t waiting for him, he paused in his nook and crossed his arms.

“No use in glaring at me,” Dorian stated, turning a page in his book and not bothering to look up. “She already came by and twisted my ear off. No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose. . . .”

Cullen considered any number of retorts, but settled with a justifiably bitter: “I am _never_ taking your advice again.”

The prospect of Cullen’s ire wasn’t enough to catch his interest, but the besmirchment of his reputation as a smooth-talker was enough to lift his head. “Please, do not pin this on me,” Dorian said. He tossed his book aside and crossed his legs. “I assumed you possessed a _modicum_ of tact and sensibility, which was clearly an error. Next time I will limit myself to words of one syllable, with helpful diagrams on the side.”

“I did exactly as you said!” Cullen hissed. Mindful of the personal nature of their conversation he glanced over his shoulder – no one was nearby, and Leliana wasn’t leaning over the rail, eavesdropping shamelessly as was her wont – and he crept further into Dorian’s nook. “She did _not_ want to talk about it, Dorian. I thought we were . . . but now I have _no_ idea where we stand.” He rubbed his face and sighed.

“Yes, well,” Dorian drawled, watching him with bright eyes. Cullen was so glad his pain was amusing to him. “That’s because you _didn’t_ do what I said. ‘Assassins are coming to kidnap me and make me evil’ is not a good time for the ‘I was a bad guy once and I know what you saw, but I love you the bestest, let’s make adorable warrior-babies while rescuing druffalos from demons and, I don’t know, puppies from trees—‘”

“Dorian,” Cullen interrupted, rolling his eyes.

“Cullen,” Dorian mimicked. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You botched it up. Next time, think fewer complicated conversations, more hugs. She was worried for your _life,_ you oaf, not your loyalty or your inferiority complex.”

Cullen tapped his fingers against his elbow, glaring at his friend. “I do not have an inferiority complex,” he finally growled, not for the first time. “I don’t think I’m _inferior,_ ” he added, in the face of Dorian’s obvious disbelief.

Dorian just raised his eyebrows even higher.

Cullen rubbed the bridge of his nose and pushed off the wall. “Fine,” he groused, reluctant but forever determined to be fair. “Maybe it’s not your fault.”

“Only maybe?”

“ _Maybe._ But I’m still not listening to you anymore. All you’ve done,” he pointed sternly, “is get me into trouble.”

Dorian sighed and rested his forehead in his palm. “Maker save us,” he groaned, “you’re going back to doing this on your own. That poor woman.” He sighed and looked up, crossing his arms. “Very well. But don’t come running to _me_ when you’re dying of blue balls. I refuse to help you anymore. Try the Iron Bull, he’s a soft spot for hopeless causes.”

Cullen had absolutely no intent of gracing _that_ with a retort. As he prepared to leave Dorian’s cubby, he stopped cold at the sight that greeted him. With a lazy smirk and a graceful wave of her hand, Leliana sauntered past him to set up camp against one of Dorian’s bookcases.

“Oh, hello, Spymaster,” Dorian said, all sunny smiles and innocent eyes. “Were you still in the library? I thought you’d gone back to your rookery.” He smiled broadly at Cullen.

In return, Cullen glared bloody murder. Leliana just looked like one of the cats that occasionally succeeded in eating her crows. “No worries, Master Pavus,” she said, and fixed her gaze on Cullen. “Those are some very _interesting_ things I overheard, Commander. Have you been hiding things from your Auntie Nightingale?” Her smirk broadened. “You know I have only your best interests at heart.”

Cullen shifted his glare to her. “I am not talking to _either of you,_ ” he gritted, with all of the firmness and command he could muster. And then, professional to the end, he handed his reports to her. They were the entire reason he’d stopped by, after all.

Leliana accepted them with clear amusement. Deeply uncomfortable under her knowing stare, Cullen nodded a stiff goodbye and hurried away. As he reached the stairwell, Cullen heard Leliana strike up a conversation with the Tevinter mage. “Puppies in trees, Dorian?”

“Well, how should _I_ know? Something adorable and helpless, presumably.”

“It’s just . . . not a place they usually end up. In the grand scheme of things.” Her voice turned suspicious. “You haven’t been _putting_ them in trees, have you?”

“What, that’s not where they belong? You Southerners. . . .”

Cullen shook his head, entering Solas’s office. The elven apostate was sitting at his desk, ankles crossed, head tipped back as he listened to every word of Leliana and Dorian’s conversation. Face flushing, Cullen avoided his knowing gaze and all but fled to his tower.

He was never leaving his office _again._


	2. Chapter 2

The Iron Bull was woken from a sound sleep by the noise of an explosion. He was on his feet, battleaxe in hand, before his eyes were fully open. All good – except that, in his haste, he bashed _through_ his door rather than opening it (again). He paused to swear, knocking away splinters and making sure he hadn’t damaged his weapon. Dammit, the Inquisitor was going to chew his ass out for real when she saw it. This shit wasn’t funny after the fifth or sixth time.

Cole was somewhere nearby; Bull heard him before he saw him. “Crashing, crushing, cracking stone and snapping wood, no air, hot roaring, where is my sword—“

“Shut up and move!” Bull shouted, barreling onwards.

He needn’t have ordered; Cole had already shrugged on his knives and was dropping from the third floor to the second without using the stairs. Bull was so busy watching him vault the railings and land that he almost flattened Sera, a collision prevented only by her nimble grace.

“Whatsit?” she demanded, shoving him ahead of her and clattering down the stairs at his back. “Coryphythingy? Archdemon? Shite, not an archdemon, I hate that thing!”

The door to the tavern was already open, letting in cold air and the sound of battle. They pushed through a huddle of frightened civilians and staggered into the open. Much of the courtyard was lit by orange flames from the wreckage of the main gate, the rest of it full of dark, harried shapes that were probably Inquisition soldiers – but might be something else. Sera started to run out ahead of him and he automatically caught her and pushed her behind him, to safety, searching the sky and hoping for the beat of leathery wings.

He was disappointed. Cole stepped out of the shadows at their side. “It’s not a dragon,” he said in his strange, thready voice, drawing his knives. Sera notched an arrow and Bull brandished his axe, growling. “It’s mages. Bad ones, with twisted up songs. They like to hurt, they live for pain, the taste of blood and death and agony—“

“All right, we get it,” Sera interrupted. “Blood mages, bad. Where are they already!”

“They have a target,” Cole breathed, and galloped off into the night. Cursing, Bull and Sera followed.

~

Evelyn was jerked from a sound sleep by the explosion, rolling out of bed and landing on her knees in a tangle of blankets. She freed herself and staggered toward the balcony as her door burst open – she whirled, gasping, painfully aware of her empty hands—

It was just her servant, Deryn. “Your Worship!” she cried. Unlike her lady, Deryn had taken the time to grab her blade before stumbling out of bed. “Are you well?”

Evelyn ran to the balcony, overlooking the courtyard. The sight of the shattered gate left her fists clenching, mouth and gut flooding with adrenaline. Pieces of burning wreckage had been flung throughout the keep. Some of the flames were spreading, but there were men and women trained to put out fires, and as far as she could tell, they were doing exactly that. Soldiers were flowing out of the towers, torches in hand. There were dark shapes coming up from the valley, more soldiers or enemies, it was impossible to tell. But there was no archdemon, no massive force coming over the mountain. She couldn’t even see any fighting—

“There!” she suddenly gasped. Deryn had come to her side and was brandishing her short sword, trembling but determined to put herself between any threats and her lady. “Fighting!” It was on the crenellations between the gate and the first tower, a sudden eruption of magical fire and the flash of blades.

“Mages,” Deryn said, voice quavering. They could see the glow of enchanted ice even from this distance.

Evelyn turned her back on the sight, donning armored coat over sleep tunic and leggings. She grabbed her bow and arrows from their place beside her bed and headed for the door. Halfway there, she stopped and turned. “Deryn?”

The young elven woman was still by the balcony, wide-eyed and terrified. “My lady?”

“Dress yourself and come down to the main hall,” she ordered. “There will be soldiers there to protect you.” She drew a smile from somewhere, small but surprisingly genuine. “Don’t be afraid.”

The girl didn’t move, but there was no time to urge her to hurry or to offer reassurance. Evelyn jogged down the stairs without a backwards glance, bursting into the hall at a rapid trot. She was greeted by an organized uproar, as civilians organized themselves and soldiers barked orders and shouted updates. She found several of her companions ready and waiting – Cassandra was already directing the chaos as she pulled her armor over her jerkin, her shield held by a sleep-rumpled Leliana. Vivienne was waiting against the wall, staff on her back, sleek and elegant despite the hour.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said to Leliana, who nodded and disappeared towards her rookery. She turned to follow Evelyn. “Inquisitor?”

“This way,” Evelyn called, already elbowing through the crowd. Vivienne brought up the rear as Evelyn slammed through Skyhold’s doors, knifing between bellowing soldiers with ease, her eyes on the fight taking place above the ruined gate. If her eyes veered towards Cullen’s office, dark and unlit, no one needed to know.

~

Blackwall finished shrugging into his gambeson and caught Josephine before she could gallop out of the barn. “Wait,” he ordered.

She struggled weakly against his grasp, even as she obeyed. “I must get to the main hall,” she said urgently. He could see the whites of her eyes showing even in the gloom, could hear the waver in her voice even over the distant roar of battlemagic. “There are things I need to do, to prepare. An attack like this – our guests—“

Blackwall pressed his hand carefully over her mouth, tucking her against his side, fastening his gambeson one-handed. She had pulled on her underdress and surcoat in the time it took him to find his underarmor, let alone get it on. Somehow, she’d even managed to arrange her hair in a loose knot as well. She was a lady in truth, skilled in subtle warfare, but the fear in her eyes was that of one unused to open battle.

“Wait,” he ordered again, against her cheek as he guided her back inside. “Listen. Look.”

He stepped away to grab his weapons, leaving her momentarily. He had already doused the lights in the barn, mindful of how they illuminated the interior to anyone with ill-intent. He held his shield and sword away from himself to prevent clatter, and returned to her side. Without a word, she pointed at the southeast wall, overlooking the kitchens. If he squinted, he could just glimpse movement.

“Diversion,” he whispered against her ear, nodding towards the noisy fighting at the gate. He refused to let himself be diverted, either by her beauty or her obvious fear. He had seen her nightmares about Haven. It was hard, at times, to remember that there was still innocence like hers in the world, but he would be dead before it was damaged any further by anyone. And that included him and his lies.

“I’m going to check it out,” he murmured. “Hide in here. Wait.”

She gripped his arm with both small hands, not even able to touch her fingers and thumb together around the width. Rather than yank away, he waited for her to relax, meeting her worried gaze with as much calmness as he could muster. Hesitantly, she nodded and let him go, easing into the shadows with a graceful woman’s natural ease.

Josephine wasn’t the only civilian nearby. The stablehands were housed outside the walls, but some were on-duty at all times, even if that meant dozing on a hay bale while wrapped in a horse blanket, just in case someone needed a mount. Blackwall found them clustered in one of the outbuildings and gestured them over to Josephine, who extended her arms and beckoned for them to hurry. The kids ran gladly, followed a beat later by rickety old Master Dennet, two swords strapped hastily over a grenadier’s belt.

Blackwall emerged from the stables, considering his options. This corner of the courtyard was dark and quiet, as the noisy battle claimed both attention and reinforcements. The doors that led into the keep proper were closed and no doubt barricaded from the other side. There was no sign of men on the walls, which was alarming. Cullen trained his men to maintain their posts even in the face of an attack, forever mindful of duplicity.

With a shrug and a grunt, he stepped into the open. Lurking wasn’t really his specialty.

The horses fidgeted and neighed restlessly. Blackwall focused his attention on them without seeming to, trusting their sharp senses above his own. As he approached the wall, he saw the rope ladder that had been thrown over the side. Even as he watched, a shadowy figure descended with unnatural ease.

_Great,_ he groused internally, _acrobatic assassins, just what we needed,_ and grabbed an axe from a nearby woodpile. He threw it at the assassin before they reached the end of the ladder, and was rewarded by a yell of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground.

A startled neigh sent him spinning, shield up. A pair of blades skipped harmlessly over the polished surface as the assassin staggered, off-balance. Blackwall’s sword lashed out in an automatic circle, missing the assassin by a hairs-breadth as he backflipped away. Roaring a battlecry, he chased after him and brought his blade down blindly, half-severing the man’s leg. He fell, clutching his thigh as blood spurted.

He wasn’t dead yet, but he would be soon. Blackwall turned his back on him and kept moving.

Another assassin tried him as he approached the well. This one he bashed over the head with his shield and kicked aside, waiting a moment to make sure they were out before moving on. So far, so good. If this was the caliber of their attackers they should have nothing to worry about – although that didn’t explain what had happened to Cullen’s guards—

His thoughts were interrupted by the jingle of a chain. It was the only warning he had before it was wrapped around his throat.

There was something about being strangled that the books and stories got very, very wrong – there was no time for planning or heroics. The effects made themselves felt within seconds, not just the darkening vision, but also muscle weakness, scattered thoughts, and a splitting headache. Ripping the chain away, or even more ridiculously, breaking it, would never work. Adrenaline could only do so much, especially when an assassin had their entire weight leveraged against a scrag at your throat.

Instantly, Blackwall went limp and threw himself backwards, hoping to take his attacker by surprise. He heard a grunt as his weight knocked her to the ground, hopefully squeezing the air from her lungs. The chain slackened enough for him to get his thumbs under it.

It wasn’t enough. His vision was a mass of blackness and white spots, his head was spinning, and he could no longer feel his limbs. He bucked uselessly, spitting and drooling, and then wheezed in shock as a dagger was driven into his gut.

That was the final straw. Everything dissolved into fire and darkness, and then even the pain seemed to recede. He wished he could say that he commended his soul to the Maker, or that he thought of Josephine and regretted the truths he had yet to tell her, but his thoughts began and ended with the promise of respite, and peace—

Sudden light erupted. Air filled his aching lungs, and feeling returned to him. Blackwall doubled over with a groan, clutching his stomach and getting his knees under him. By some miracle, one grasping hand landed on his sword, and he swung it blindly with all of his strength.

It collided with someone who swore in Tevene. Inspired by the sound, Blackwall staggered upright, nearly toppling backwards, and searched for dark shapes against mud-churned white snow. He might as well have kept his eyes closed, he could barely see anything—

He heard bow twang and a body hit the ground, and brought his blade down in an executioners swing. It hit something, that was certain, judging by the thunk and the scream.

“Behind you!” Cassandra bellowed, and he spun, blood flying from his sword as it arced through the air. The second attacker – a woman, he saw, past the spots still clouding his vision – leapt nimbly aside. Lightning struck, illuminating the clearing and coursing through the assassin, freezing her in place. Viciously satisfied, Blackwall separated her head from her shoulders.

“Blackwall!” The Inquisitor jogged to him, arrow still notched. He staggered into her side and she shifted to brace him, not taking her hands from her bow. “You’re injured!”

He snarled lowly. “More are coming.”

She waited to move away until he could stand on his own. Cassandra paced around them, a torch in hand. She found two more rope ladders, but no more assassins.

“Onto the walls,” Evelyn ordered tensely. “No time to waste. Vivienne, do what you can for Blackwall. Blackwall—“

He groaned under his breath as Vivienne stepped forward. “Josephine’s in the stables,” he rasped. “Stablehands. Kids—”

“You’ll stay and guard them,” the Inquisitor interrupted. “Vivienne, follow us when you’re finished. Cassandra, with me!”

“Of course,” Cassandra murmured. She glanced back one last time at the ladders, curious and suspicious, but followed the Inquisitor at a trot. Blackwall sighed and submitted to Vivienne’s ungentle treatment with poor grace.

~

The Iron Bull, Cole, and Sera crashed into the attackers on the wall like a tidal wave. Or, well, Bull crashed like a wave; Sera and Cole crashed like the deadly, precise murderchildren that Bull secretly thought of them as.

Krem and Dalish were already there, with some soldiers they’d befriended – they must’ve been in the tavern drinking when the attack began, and were among the first to respond. Sera threw a grenade to slow the attackers closest to them and then clambered up the nearby tower, perching in a windowsill. She was able to find her footing and fire arrow after arrow from her vantage point. As for Cole, he tumbled from one end of the battlefield to the other, daggers flashing to those who could see them, invisible to those who could not.

Bull did what he did best. He waded into the skirmish with a roar, neatly beheading the mage menacing Krem and the men taking cover behind him. His second-in-command bellowed something in Tevene that was either a compliment or a comment on his parentage.

“Chargers!” Bull roared. “Pull the injured back. Get behind me!” He grinned as the cluster of mages and mercenaries huddled behind a wall of fire. One of them fired off an icebolt and he grinned wider as it smacked into his chest. It stung, but the pain was good. Woke him up, honed his edge. He considered catching the bit of blood on his fingers and licking it off, but the mage looked sufficiently intimidated.

And anyway, Krem would make fun of him afterwards.

Cole appeared behind him, causing Dalish to startle and curse. “They are flashing, flaunting, keeping our attention riveted. Shadows gather, waiting, striking in silence.”

“This is a diversion,” Bull translated this. “Assassins are in the keep.”

“No shit!” Sera shouted. Her arrows, unlike Bull and his axe, could pass over the wall of fire without difficulty. The mages’ barriers were holding for now, but given enough time she could minnow them down. On the other hand, if there were others coming—

Even as Sera fired again, another arrow came from the direction of Cullen’s tower. Bull recognized the Inquisitor’s silhouette on the rooftop even before Sera shouted, “Fuck yeah! Let’s get ‘em, Inky, let’s go!”

Bull paced in front of the flames, growling. He was about to take his chances and barrel through when he saw Cassandra rappelling down from Cullen’s tower, the Inquisitor covering her as she descended. The mercenaries and mages prepared for a fight, not looking worried by the approach of a single woman – clearly, they didn’t realize she was a Seeker, or they hadn’t heard of a Seeker’s abilities.

Bull grinned at no one in particular and then roared, drawing the enemy’s attention. He mimed preparing for a charge, that should keep them riveted. The mage at the center of the defensive circle raised his hands, staff in a loose grip, pulling up a circle of defensive magic—

Only to collapse to his knees as Cassandra landed on her knees and stabbed her sword into the stone, blue light rolling off of her. The leader vanished in a blur – damn Fade walking – but the others were taken completely by surprise, staggering as their magic evaporated. The collapsing wall of fire felt like a warm kiss as Bull charged through it, knocking one mage to the ground, disemboweling another, and headbutting a third. He drew back and prepared to bury his axe in a fourth’s chest, but the Inquisitor had already sniped him. He fell to the ground, dying with a gurgle as his brains tumbled from his skull.

The mercenaries had fallen back as the mages fell, and that cost them. The biggest one bellowed as Cole’s daggers bit deep, swinging wildly in the boy’s direction like a giant at a fly. He fell forward a moment later as Sera took out his knees, and then lost his life to Krem’s hammer. Two of the mercenaries threw their weapons away and their hands in the air, surrendering without a word. The remaining five, stupidly, decided to charge Bull, Krem, and Dalish, in the center of the walkway, shouting battle cries.

It was a short fight. And then it was silent.

A few other skirmishes nearby wrapped up at the same time, Cassandra galloping up and down the stairs to assist the troops, Sera and the Inquisitor maintaining fire until the last enemy fell. Bull bellowed, wordless and bloodthirsty, just in case a bad guy was hiding and needed a good scare. “Is that it!” he roared, and then waited.

A moment later, he turned to a panting and sweaty Cassandra. Mildly, he asked, “Seriously? That’s it?”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Krem shouted from behind him, hoarse from fighting. “We’ve been out here for hours!”

“Closer to ten minutes,” Bull said dismissively.

“You horn-sucking arse-licker!” Krem shouted, clearly irate and ready to kill his boss or die trying. Bull laughed.

Only to stop, nearly biting his tongue in half, as the tower to his left was rocked by a second explosion. The device must have been placed inside Cullen’s office; it did not erupt in fire and stone, but rather a muffled clap of thunder and a burp of air. Dirt and loose pebbles flew away, with enough force to knock Bull to his knees and send shrapnel skittering over his skin.

He staggered upright, axe in hand. His ears were ringing and his eyes were watering, all familiar sensations. He would deal with the flashbacks later. Cole had thrown himself over Cassandra, shielding her from the blast, and Sera had tumbled to the ground more-or-less gracefully. Krem and Dalish were covering their soldier friends. Their mouths were all moving, but Bull couldn’t hear.

With slow-dawning dread, he realized the tower had half-collapsed on itself. Bad enough, but worse – there was no sign of the roof. The Inquisitor, who had been perched atop it, was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to get this up! The fic itself is complete, aside from finishing touches -- I've just been distracted by classes starting again. I will try to get the next few chapters up this weekend or next.

Cullen was not in his office during the attack, which may or may not have been a blessing. He’d been drawn from an uneasy doze by Allan’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.

Cullen rolled to sit up instantly, grabbing his sword from the floor, all in one smooth motion. “Allan?”

“Not an alarm, ser,” the boy said instantly, torn between discomfort, apology, and a little, adolescent smirk at seeing the Commander so disheveled. He came to attention as Cullen stood and shifted, settling his armor more comfortably. “A soldier is here to see you. One of Sister Leliana’s men.”

“One of. . . .” Frowning, Cullen ran his hands through his hair and yawned. “All right, I’ll talk to him. Did he say what it’s about?” Sniffing briskly, he donned the pieces of his armor he’d bothered to remove.

“Just that it was urgent, ser.” The boy hesitated. Cullen took his time pulling on his gloves and then buckling on his sword, waiting for him to continue. “I left him on the walkway, ser, in case it was a trap. Like the Sister recommended.” He shifted from foot-to-foot.

The kid was pale and nervous-looking, but that could just be the moonlight ghosting through the open roof. He needed to work on his reports, but he was suspicious and alert despite the hour, all good qualities for a soldier. Cullen gripped the boy’s shoulder firmly in passing. “Good choice,” he said, hefting his shield from its resting place against a table leg. He wouldn’t wear it, but he would keep it nearby. “Especially with Leliana’s bodyguards hovering.” He rolled his eyes, inviting him to share in his exasperation.

Allan grinned briefly, scuffing his newly shorn hair. “I think they were talking to him, ser. Checking him out, like.”

“Just as well.” Cullen checked his sword, and then gestured the boy to go ahead of him. Habit, not to leave anyone at his back. “Let them get it out of their systems. Keep them out of our hair.”

“We can hope, ser,” Allan said, voice muffled as he descended the ladder. Cullen half-smiled in the gloom, watching him go.

~

Downstairs, Cullen admitted Leliana’s man, a lieutenant named Deniel, and set Allan to stand guard on the inside, where he could hear everything being said. Deniel did not look happy with his choice, but Cullen pretended not to notice. Allan was a clever lad – Cullen had assigned the boy to himself initially to give him something to do, as he was too young to train in earnest, but without family to keep him out of trouble. He’d found that, despite his shyness, Allan had a canny streak and was already shaping up to be an excellent chess player. He would make an excellent strategist and military leader, if he still chose to become a warrior once he was of age.

Cullen intended he get the best damn training in the realities of command that was available, just in case. Nothing like his own, which had been spotty at best, and had so ill-prepared him for the challenges he’d faced.

With a little prompting, Deniel took a seat and began speaking. Padrig Burke, a private in one of Sergeant Amalia’s squads, wasn’t someone Cullen knew personally, but his story was sadly typical. According to Deniel, Padrig had enlisted with his cousin and brother. After his brother was found dead on the Sword Coast, Padrig had vowed revenge – only to have his feet cut out from under him when the Blades of Hessarian were recruited into the Inquisition.

According to Deniel, Padrig had grieved, and had been – perhaps deservedly – bitter, but he had done his duty. He had seemed to be moving forward. And then Haven had happened, his cousin cut down in front of him, and it had been downhill since.

“Do you think your friend is a danger to himself?” Cullen asked seriously.

Deniel rubbed his hands together briefly. “I don’t know, ser,” he said. He sat in the chair Cullen kept for visitors, his back to the door, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes met Cullen’s only occasionally, with the skittishness of a cornered animal.

Cullen himself was standing, hands resting on his sword hilt, pacing a bit. “Or do you think he’s planning to desert?” he prompted.

Deniel fidgeted. “At times he’s .  .  . I didn’t want to say anything. It’s not something a soldier recovers from, an accusation like this.” His expression was pleading, and Cullen nodded once, in sympathy. “But he’s – he’s getting worse. I don’t think he should be in the field.” He sighed and rubbed his face, staring down at the ground.

Cullen watched him intently for a long moment. He knew himself, and he knew that he was not a trusting man. The fact that something in Deniel’s story did not right true was not surprising – the question was whether his suspicions were valid, or the product of mild insomnia and too damn much work. What benefit would Deniel gain from telling stories? Slandering a rival, vengeance against a former friend . . . drawing the Inquisition’s Commander away to facilitate an assassination? The prospect of himself as a target made him scoff, but he had promised to take the threat seriously. It was . . . worth considering.

“I just want to help him,” Deniel said, as the silence drug on. “I don’t want him to hurt himself, or the – the Inquisitor.”

Cullen’s blood ran cold, his attention diverted. “You think he’s targeting the _Inquisitor?_ ” he snapped.

“The way he’s been talking . . . I don’t know.” Deniel shook his head hopelessly. “I just don’t know anymore.”

Frowning, Cullen moved to the exit, waving for Deniel to stay in his seat. Allan hurried to open the door for him, and joined him in the cold night air. As he had suspected, the soldier on duty – one of Leliana’s bodyguards, pretending to patrol the battlements as they guarded his office – was nearby. “Private?”

The woman, Yannick, came to attention. “Commander, ser?”

“We’re going into the valley. Direct the Guard-Captain to find a relief to cover your post in the next five minutes, and meet me here.”

She saluted and hurried off. Cullen caught Allan’s shoulder, tugging him away from the open door, out of Deniel’s view. “Catch all that?” he asked quietly, crouching to speak quietly.

Eyes wide, mouth a thin line, Allan nodded.

Cullen gave him a little nudge. “Any thoughts?”

Allan hesitated, but shook his head. His expression was clearly conflicted, and his eyes slid to the open door, and the man still waiting in the office. When he met Cullen’s gaze again, he was still conflicted, but also clearly suspicious.

Cullen laughed a little, straightening slowly. “Yeah,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Me, too.”

~

As Cullen, Yannick, and Deniel rode out, Cullen was pleased to see that Yannick’s replacement was already on the battlements. There was no sign of Allan – freed from his duties for the rest of the shift, he was likely bedding down with a sleeping roll in Cullen’s loft, as he did every night.

The descent into the valley was quiet, broken only by the horses and Cullen’s occasional orders. Deniel appeared nervous, Yannick stoic. As they reached the final bridge that overlooked the tents and cabins of the soldiers’ housing, Cullen waved them to go on ahead, pausing to look over his domain and marshal his thoughts.

The ramshackle cluster of soldiers’ housing was slowing beginning to resemble a village, particularly as pilgrims continued to stream in. It was a disconcerting thought. Too many civilians, too many innocents to protect. And what of Padrig Burke? Cullen had seen broken men take to violence against themselves, or others. Which would he be? And what would they do with him? To send him away would create unrest amongst the soldiers – to keep him on could present a danger to others, including the Inquisitor—

Best not to think of that, he decided, kicking his mount back into motion. Particularly in the wake of the almost-quarrel that had left them tense with each other. She had seen the worst he was capable of, in the dark future; he wasn’t sure if his desperate desire to talk to her about it was for her reassurance, or his. He had feared Meredith, in his last battle with her, but these days he feared _becoming_ her even more. And if Dorian was right, if it was not egotistical to assume that Evelyn might care for him . . . dare he inflict himself, in his current state, upon her? It was selfish of him, but he hoped—

Despite his distraction, Yannick’s startled, “’Ware archer! Commander!” kicked him into motion. Without conscious thought, he rolled from his saddle, taking cover behind his horse. There came the multiple, muffled thuds of an arrows striking, and then silence.

“We need to find cover,” Cullen shouted. “Yannick! Deniel!” He freed his shield from the saddlebags single-handed, drawing his sword with the other. Through it all, he kept a grip on the beast’s reins. He hated to hide behind his mount, but until he knew how many archers there were. . . .

Yannick had also dismounted, but not quickly enough – an arrow was sticking in her side as she limped to him. Cullen ushered her behind him, keeping his shield at the ready. “The enemy’s position? Deniel?”

“The opposite mountain, ser. All I saw.” Yannick was gasping, applying pressure to the wound and clutching at the cliffside for balance. “Deniel’s dead, ser.”

“I see,” Cullen said grimly.

It didn’t rule out the chance that he’d been a traitor, but it did make it less likely. As for their current predicament – there were a number of positions in the valley well-suited to snipers, a fact he had planned to compensate for by installing coverings on all of the walkways. Emphasis on ‘planned to’. The closest cover was in the valley itself.

A second hail of arrows came in, and the horse screamed and reared. About four archers, Cullen guessed. He noted the position of the arrows in the animal’s side and calculated the trajectory as he released the reins, freeing the horse to flee. The enemy was stupid, and had decided to cluster, rather than spread out and make use of their opportunities; stupid enemies made his job so much easier.

He hefted his shield and kept it between himself and them. “We will have to run for it, I’m afraid,” he said. Would have been nice to have kept the horse, but he’d needed the cover, and once the animal was injured – ah, well. No time for second guessing. He sheathed his sword and drew his arm around Yannick’s middle, mindful of the arrow’s placement. “How much pain are you in?”

“Fit to fight, ser,” she said promptly, grimacing. Judging by the pallor of her face and the spreading red stain on her side, she was lying, but he suspected it was out of habit rather than desire to be deceptive. “Ser, you should go without me—“

“That’s enough of that,” he interrupted crisply, before she could even get started. She wasn’t quite a dead weight, but the uneven jolts and jerks as her legs threatened to give out were almost as bad. Cullen split his attention between Yannick and keeping his shield up. How she had spotted the archers on the mountainside was beyond him – they fired off a few more volleys, the arrows either whistling by or bouncing off his shield. One was packed with explosives, which sent them careening into the mountainside, but the metal resisted the flames as it always had.

“That’s a nice shield, sir,” Yannick panted, once their ears had stopped ringing and they could hear each other again. Once he got her to safety, he would signal the guards on the walls to check the mountain for snipers. He was tempted to ride up after them himself, but knew better than to deprive an army of its leader. Particularly if this was the first punch in a one-two strike. “Where’d you get it?”

Cullen grinned briefly, adrenaline coursing. “Had it made special,” he admitted, grunting as another arrow slammed into it. “You want one?”

“It’s pretty shiny,” she admitted, and staggered, yanking Cullen hard to the left. Another arrow came careening in and bounced off the back of Cullen’s armor. For a moment, he feared that one of the snipers had changed position, and then realized the arrow had simply slid off his shield and hit him at an angle.

“Sorry, ser,” she tried again.

“Yannick, if you keep apologizing, I will have you demoted.” Finally, they reached the camp, and were granted cover by the trees. Cullen braced behind a copse of pines briefly, catching his breath for a few scant seconds.

“Sorry, ser,” she said again, this time impertinently. “That’s up to the Spymaster, ser.”

“I could talk her around,” Cullen argued mildly, but she just laughed, wheezing, blood flecking her lips. They both knew he probably couldn’t. Disturbed by the gurgle of blood in her breath, he drug her along, supporting nearly all of her weight as her feet dragged.

Halfway to the first lean-to, a soldier with lieutenant’s patches came jogging forward. “Ser! Are those _arrows_?”

“My men are idiots,” Cullen muttered, for Yannick’s ears only. She snickered weakly, lolling. “Yes, lieutenant, those are arrows,” he said more loudly. “Bring me one of your healers and signal the castle – tell them to check the mountaintops for snipers, and go into full alert. Send a runner to the Inquisitor and _make sure she stays put._ Understood?”

“Ser, yes ser!” The lad galloped off, shouting orders briskly and almost making Cullen feel bad for calling him an idiot. Almost.

“’Are those arrows’,” Cullen muttered under his breath, handing Yannick off to the first healer he saw. This duty discharged, he strode for the center of camp. “What will they come up with next? Why I even bother is—“ He spotted a familiar face and changed course. Captain Rylen and Enchanter Decima were already awake, but rather than be productive, they had chosen to engage in another stupid argument. Their officers clustered on opposite sides of an invisible line, useless and clucking like chickens. He took a breath, preparing to issue orders—

The explosion from the keep sent his stomach crawling into his throat. He found he had drawn his sword again, his hand still tacky with Yannick’s blood; for a moment, he was reminded so acutely of the Conclave that he smelled the red lyrium, felt the prickle of Fade energy as it poured from the Breach. He took a breath, and it was gone.

“Rylen! Decima!” he shouted, over the sudden surge of noise and movement. They looked surprised to see him but rushed over, trailing officers and mages like ducklings. “Up to the keep! With me!” He grabbed a lieutenant running to his post and gave her a shake when she tried to yank free. “Soldier!”

The lass gasped as she recognized his commander. “Yes, ser!”

“Do you know Padrig Burke?” Someone brought him a mount. Without looking over, Cullen took the reins and mounted up.

“Yes, ser,” she said promptly. “Out of Wilburh’s unit, ser, an archer. Shall I summon him—“

Cullen cut her off as Decima and Rylen mounted up behind him, still exchanging insults. “Send word to Wilburh,” he ordered, stilling his horse as it fidgeted. “I want Burke in the brig, pending questioning. If he’s not there when I get back, I’ll want to know why. No harsh treatment, mind – just under arrest.”

He beckoned Rylen and Decima forward once he had confirmation. Decima threw a barrier over the group without being asked, and they took the mountain path at a gallop. If the snipers wanted to shoot them down, they would have to punch through Decima’s barrier first – assuming, of course, that they could hit them at speed. Silently, Cullen invited them to try.

~

_Falling, falling, falling_ —

Evelyn hit the first rock with her knees, tumbling head over heels as she continued to plummet through the air, completely unsupported. Her occaisional flails came into contact with the mountainside, hurtling past her face, terrifyingly close and dizzyingly far. Her stomach rebelled as that trusty constant – the ground – completely failed her. Another clump of rocks jutting from the cliff-face collided with her, left her wheezing, but this time she managed to wrap her arms around them—

Only for the rocks to break free. She threw out her arms instinctively, and realized she was falling headfirst only when her elbows hit something a beat before her head—

She transitioned from a plummet to a roll, flung ‘round and ‘round like a wagon wheel. Her desperate attempts to find a grip failed, left her hands bruised and bloody. At times, she was sliding slowly enough that she could see her own hands clawing at the snow, covered in blood and mud—

With one final roll, she came to a stop. She continued scrambling until, belatedly, her wits caught up with her – and then, like a puppet with its strings cut, she collapsed and curled around her bruised midsection, gasping and sobbing. She was alive. Alive. She gripped a handful of grass and snow, pressed her cheek to the ground, and laughed, tears streaming down her face. _Alive. Alive._

It was unclear how long she stayed that way. She might have passed out. When she finally lifted her head and attempted to look around, it took her a long few minutes to realize what she was seeing.

Snow-covered ground, of course, broken by jutting stones. A slope – she sat up – yes, she was still on an incline, some thirty or forty feet away from level ground. Trees gathered thickly around a sparse path. When she looked up groggily, wincing as her head and neck throbbed, she couldn’t even see the walls she had fallen from. Various cliffs and snowy craigs obscured her view.

With a strength born of desperation and adrenaline, she was able to slide down the remaining descent, half-crying, half-laughing at the pain. When she reached the bottom, she laid back, shivering, and caught her breath for a few minutes, until the pain drove her sit upright. She would find no relief until she found the others, she decided, and wiped her tears away irritably.

She found herself tangled in something and realized it was her bow, broken by the fall, two ends held together by the string. Reminded, she checked her quiver – she’d lost most of her arrows, but a few remained, not completely broken. Most of her potions and vials of poison were shattered, but her last remaining grenade, secure in its enchanted bottle, was still usable. She downed two healing potions, sighing as the pain abated immediately. But she knew better than to relax. Healing potions could stop pain and slow bleeding, but they were terrible for deep injuries. Without a surgeon or a mage to rearrange skin and bone, the wounds would heal badly and have to be re-set. And the potions did nothing for internal bleeding, a fact that had been drummed into her head multiple times.

She resolved not to dwell, and to save her remaining three potions for later. They might help.

Finally, she used a tree to drag herself upright. It looked like there was a campfire ahead – maybe a hallucination, or maybe help. Not for the first time in her life, Evelyn leaned into the cold wind and began walking forward, one step at a time. Following the fire.

~

Once everyone noticed that the Inquisitor was gone, chaos erupted.

“Oh, shit,” Sera cried. She stood paralyzed, arms akimbo, staring at the tower where the Inquisitor had been. “Shit, shit, shit, shit! Fuck! Shit!”

“Falling,” Cole breathed, “tumbling hard sickening – sky and snow and black – can’t—“ He stared up at the Iron Bull with horrified eyes. “I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “I can’t hear her anymore!”

“Shit!” Sera cried again. “What does that mean, why can’t you hear her, what does that mean! Cole!”

Bull found himself with one hand around Sera’s arm and the other around Cole’s, stopping both kids from galloping off in a blind, tow-headed panic. Cassandra, still dazed from the battle, followed their horrified gazes enough to see where the Inquisitor wasn’t. She swore, briefly but filthily, and with profound thoroughness. It was strangely alluring with that accent of hers.

Bull considered himself a decisive fellow, but ‘the Boss just fell off the tower of a keep built on a giant cliff, while fighting assassins, in the middle of the night, in winter’ was a bit beyond his experience. “We need to decide what to do,” he stated, with all the authority he could muster as his teammates bickered and scrapped like kids. He looked to Cassandra for help. “Should we go after the Boss?”

She grimaced, but was every bit as steady as he could have hoped. “We still do not know if the keep is clear of enemies,” she reminded him. “Or who was the target of this attack. Or if assassination was even its purpose – although that does seem likely.”

“We can’t get out to help her, anyway!” Sera interrupted shrilly, nails digging into Bull’s arm. “They blew up the gate, remember? We’re trapped in here! And she’s trapped out there!” She closed her eyes briefly and ground her teeth, gritting out another, quieter, _“Shit._ ”

Bull and Cassandra eyed one another. “That _may_ have been a design flaw,” Bull pointed out, wondering if he was about to get a shield to the chin for his impertinence.

Cassandra glowered, but nodded toward the stairs. “First order of business,” she called to the clustered soldiers, as Bull hauled the kids down the steps, moving against the tide as soldiers flocked to the sound of Cassandra’s voice, “we find the Inquisitor. Second, we make sure this keep is clear of enemies. Who is with me?”

A deafening cheer sounded from behind them, led by Krem and Dalish. As they descended into the darkness of the courtyard, Cole protested softly, “But I still can’t _hear her_.”

Bull tried not to despair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff in the warnings makes an appearance in this chapter. If you want more detailed warnings, feel free to comment or send me an email (hthrperkins@gmail.com).

A dark shape drew Cullen’s attention with a powerful jolt. He brought his shield up and turned his mount, sword already held at the ready. Decima, a beat ahead, had thrown a fireball in that direction, illuminating a patch of rocks and ice, and nothing else. No enemies..

Rylen, further up the path, slowed his horse to a trot and turned. “Commander?” he called.

“You saw it, too?” Cullen asked Decima.

“One of the acrobat-trained assassins favored by the Orlesians,” she returned coolly, without looking at him.

Decima had been a Circle mage in Fereldan before the war, granted more freedom than most, and thus had a wealth of knowledge to draw from. She was a cold, tough old woman, appointed by First Enchanter Fiona rather than Cullen to lead the battlemages. But he approved the decision wholeheartedly. She was experienced and cunning in a fight, with an icy control that put even Lady Vivienne to shame. She also hated Templars, but he could deal with that.

The flames from Decima’s spell burned out slowly as Cullen turned his restless mount in a circle, checking the surrounding snowscape one last time. Seeing nothing, he kicked the horse back into motion, catching up to Rylen.

He was a horse-length behind his captain when the rain of ice started.

It had been years since he had seen this spell. The last time he had encountered it was in Kirkwall, where it had been popular. Decima threw up a barrier spell even as her horse reared, throwing her in its panic. Cullen stayed on his mount for the first wave of cascading ice, attempting to steer him towards the edges of the effect. When the second wave began, ice chunks larger than Cullen himself raining from the sky, the animal could no longer be contained.

On the ground, Cullen kept as much of his body beneath his shield as possible, driven to his knees by the hammering blows as ice piled up around him. The horse fell as well, its struggles weakening as chuncks of snow and ice piled upon it.

Rather than face a similar fate, Cullen worked to climb atop the larger chunks, unwilling to be trapped in place. Frigid winds and a watery, sleety mix rained down periodically, freezing instantly as it hit his armor, turning everything into a slippery mess. He kept his shield up, kept his limbs moving so the ice wouldn’t build up, and kept climbing.

As the sixth wave began, Cullen forced himself as upright as possible, drawing his sword. The mages could not fire through the blizzard or risk entering its confines, but they would be ready to attack when it ended. He would be ready, too. One more wave—

As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped, and Cullen was free to stand.

Decima’s furious scream rent the air. A series of fireballs flew from her fingertips, striking the enemy with unerring accuracy. Their location pinpointed, Cullen put his shield up and charged, blocking the bolts of fire they threw his way. Rylen, still mounted, was engaging more of the enemy further down the path – it looked like a magister was fighting him, leaving apprentices and some mercenaries for Cullen and Decima to deal with.

His blood sang as Cullen met the first mage. One last heft of his shield blocked a decently-sized fireball and then he was upon her, within her defenses. She was strong, blocking his sword with her staff, but she’d already forgotten his shield. They always did.

“For the Inquisitor!” he shouted, surging forward with his shield at the ready. Knocked onto her back, she again blocked his blade with her staff, leaving her neck bared to his shield. He drove it down with all his strength, crushing her windpipe, before bringing it back up—

Not quickly enough. A wave of frigid mist from another mage swept over him, coating his left side in ice. Partially paralyzed, his skin burning as the cold ate into it, Cullen threw his weight backwards.

It was enough to rip his upper half free of the ice, but his fur collar and pauldron were left embedded, his shield trapped. He kept the impromptu pillar between himself and the enemy, and hammered at the remaining ice with his blade. With the third hit, his leg finally came free, and he yanked his shield loose. Shards of ice still clung to him, but he could move.

Decima had not been idle during his distraction; she had summoned lightning to paralyze the apprentice mages and the mercenaries. A fire glyph on one side and an ice glyph on the other would keep them pinned in place even if the cage failed.

Cullen took advantage of their paralysis, gutting two mercenaries and knocking a third back onto the fire glyph, activating it and sending bodies flying. The mages recovered quickly, but made the mistake of clustering together. Cullen’s sword was no two-hander, but a wide sweep was enough to leave all three mages bloodied, their concentration disrupted, their spells fizzling.

One ran directly into the ice glyph and was blown to pieces, and another fell to his knees, clutching his wounds. The third brought her hands up—

Cullen ducked behind his shield, a cone of lightning emerging from the mage to break around him. It stung and burned his unprotected shoulder and face (who knew he would _miss_ his Templar’s helmet!) but he still advanced, one step at a time.

As soon as the lightning ended, the mage tried to run. Cullen cut her down.

“Commander!” Decima . . . shouted? Wheezed? Cullen turned to see her caught in the ghostly grasp of an imprisonment spell, and whirled to see who commanded it—

Only for a stonefist to slam into his chest, sending him flying.

He had enough time to drop his sword and turn, bringing his shield between himself and the ground. And then he hit, bouncing and sliding on his shield like a sled, before hitting a tree and shifting into a roll. He ended up on his feet and staggered more or less to a halt, shaking his head hard to clear it.

Decima was no longer standing. Rylen’s horse was fleeing, with no sign of its rider. And the leader of the enemy mages was stalking forward, magical fire radiating off of him. A shimmering white sword glowed in his right hand, and a ghostly barrier encompassed him. Cullen automatically braced, searching briefly for his own blade.

He couldn’t see it, and he dare not take his eyes off his enemy for a second longer. His shield would be his weapon now, as well as his guard. _Andraste guide me,_ he prayed, watching steadily as the mage approached. His vision was no longer doubled, but the pain in his chest was only increasing. _Maker protect me._

The mage smiled, as if he knew Cullen’s thoughts, and mocked them. They were less than twenty feet apart when he began to raise his left hand, magic gathering—

Cullen flung his shield like a disk, striking the mage squarely in the gut. He went low and charged right behind it, tackling the man to the ground with the force of his momentum, armor, and weight. He managed to pin the other man’s right hand, trapping his spectral blade against the snow where it could not hurt him.

The mage – tall, brown-skinned, black-haired, Venatori tattoos and Orlesian grooming – bucked and then headbutted Cullen, knocking him back briefly. “Nique ta mere!”

Snarling, Cullen wrapped his free hand around the man’s neck and squeezed, using his weight to keep him pinned as he struggled. He did no damage – the man’s barrier was still in place – but like most Knight Enchanters, it was fueled by offensive magic. A few minutes with no damage saw it weakening, invisible resistance melting like hot glass.

The mage’s other hand was still free. He punched Cullen in the face, but each time Cullen ducked his chin, leaving him to break his fingers against his skull. He tried to gouge at his eyes, but lacked the strength or the leverage to make it work. A flare of uncontrolled lightning struck Cullen in the chest, but he had been a Templar once, and his magic resistance had always been impressive. His heart labored, but his pulse remained steady. A second magical blow was weaker. The mage was starting to panic—

With one last push, the barrier shattered, and Cullen’s hand gripped the man’s throat for real, cutting off his air supply. Desperation made them both strong: the man’s face purpled, but his right hand began pushing forward, despite Cullen’s full weight driving it to the ground—

Cullen shifted and drove his knee into the man’s groin. It would have been a beautiful strike, if it had worked – instead, the shift of his weight allowed the man to throw him off, bringing the spirit blade down towards Cullen’s head.

Cullen rolled away, feeling as if he’d left his arm behind. Blood gushed out from beneath his armor – the plate mail was undamaged, the sword cutting only flesh and bone, no metal. His fingers still worked. He dove forward, attempting to tackle the mage again, but a blast of freezing air hit him, trapping him place.

This time, he had no leverage, no blade, and no way to break free. He watched, frozen, as the mage clambered to his knees, cursing and wheezing, and then stood, staggering and rubbing his throat.

Cullen tried to yank free, shoulder straining, blood spurting from his arm as he strugged. Maker knew he tried, but it wasn’t enough. Most of his body was encased in solid ice, and with no lyrium in his system, he could not weaken it.

The mage seemed to know he’d won – he limped to pick up his staff, turning his back on Cullen so blithely that Cullen wanted to roar in rage. It was over. _Over._

He’d lost.

~

As the mage found his staff, silence reigned. The only option Cullen had left was to pray, to pray that Evelyn and Leliana had been wrong, to pray that the Venatori had not targeted him for kidnapping. Because if they had – they had him. They would take him, and it would be Kinloch Hold all over again. He would fall, as the demons had once predicted, and he would cut down Evelyn as Dorian had described.

He closed his eyes, all of his strength leaving him. He had failed her. He had known he would. He should have listened to himself, should have insisted on a replacement, should have kept taking lyrium, should have—

He opened his eyes, and found that the mage had finally returned his attention to him. “And here you are,” he said, smiling, leaning hard on his staff. Orleisan accent, robes of a Magister. Blood dripped from the back of his head, and his eyes weren’t quite tracking properly. Despite that, he still managed to project an air of smugness very well.

Cullen was not one to boast during battle, preferring to save his breath to fight. Now, he wished he knew the blackest curses available, so he might bring them down on this man’s head.

“Well done,” he said, as calmly as he could, ignoring his hammering heart and spinning head. “Despite outnumbering and surprising us, you are the only one left.” They watched one another, the mage circling, smirking as Cullen yanked futilely at his icy prison one more time. His legs throbbed, encased in cold, and his injured arm was numb. Even if he could get free, he doubted that he would be able to fight. “What will you do now?” he asked, trying for casual.

The mage did not answer right away. Instead, he removed a small bottle from his belt. He drank, and tossed the glass aside, leaving several others in the pouch. As Cullen watched, nightmarish red fire sprang to the man’s eyes, illuminating his veins from the inside out. The world seemed to slow and sharpen as Cullen recognized red lyrium.

“You,” the man growled, “have been a pain in the ass, you know that?” He grabbed Cullen’s chin, a rough, intimate touch, and then moved to encircle his neck, mimicking Cullen’s own attack from earlier. The dark light in his eyes said he was well-aware of the irony.

The ice melted with unnatural speed as his grip tightened. Cullen reached up to pry himself free, stupidly hopeful, even as his injured arm flopped uselessly. If he could just get free—

The mage flexed his fingers, and Cullen felt something in his neck pop, followed by a rush of pain. “No, no,” the man soothed, over Cullen’s ragged shout. His eyes continued to glow, his visible injuries sealing and disappearing without a trace. “That won’t do. My master wants you alive.”

Cullen’s heart quailed. He clawed at the iron grip, but the man was strong beyond reason. How long would the red lyrium last? How long did Cullen have to goad the mage into killing him? Death was the only way left for him to serve.

Evelyn’s face flashed before his eyes. He was failing her either way, dead or alive. He had promised to serve her – to protect her. . . . Maker, he missed her already. Why had he kept his distance? What had he been waiting for?

“Yes, he wants you alive.” The mage continued, smiling to himself. Perhaps he had been sane once, but if he had, the red lyrium had broken him. “But you still ought to pay,” the mage continued, suddenly thoughtful, and then snarling. “And I don’t want you getting any ideas about running.”

His left hand came up with freakish speed, gripping Cullen’s face, pressing with enough force that Cullen thought his skull might burst. And then—

Cullen was not unfamiliar with Horror spells. He’d seen them used before, had been the focus of them more than once. He’d shaken them off with fair ease, the horrors they summoned pale reflections of the ones he’d experienced. But this was no ordinary mage – and why should he bother creating new horrors, when he could simply draw from the past?

_Brynja was the youngest of the Templars in their cohort. She’d only recently turned eighteen. They did not celebrate birthdays as recruits – on the rare occasions they’d even remembered them, they had been too tired from training to bother. But they weren’t trainees anymore, and they weren’t too tired that night, just not allowed. They had gathered secretly in the women’s quarters with bottles of liquor, and Cullen had drunk and endured his friends’ teasing, laughing at their stupid, shared jokes—_

_And midway through the night, the mages attacked. Brynja had been passed out on one of the beds, snoring. She had been the first to die, the Rage Demon descending on her with a roar, sinking molten hands into her chest. She had opened her eyes to scream, horribly awake, horribly aware—_

_Daley wasn’t someone he knew well. Just another Templar. He lasted a while, singing the Chant to himself. When they started feeding him pieces of his own flesh, he opened his mouth and chewed with lifeless eyes, as Cullen wept and pounded the bars of his cage and refused to beg—_

_Siorus was one of the mages. He lasted until the end, until just before the Hero arrived. Most of the mages had become abominations long ago, but this quiet little elf was strong. He was good company, when the demons forgot them. But when they remembered, and when he finally broke – when the Desire Demon stopped changing itself and started changing him, so that he looked down and saw something other than himself. . . ._

_He’d laughed. Cullen remembers. The demon had made a show of it, their coupling, as if Cullen could somehow be enticed – as if the smell of rotting flesh and putrid growths could somehow be ignored – and Siorus laughed and laughed as the demon played with him, using its mouth. He was still laughing as the demon began slicing into his flesh, even as his body hitched and thrashed—_

_Cullen had been imprisoned. Naked. Unable to move his arms or legs or head. He remembers how Siorus sounded as the demon cut his belly open, playing with his insides. Siorus had laughed and laughed as the demon played with his cock, shredding his organs into strings, blood and shit and cum mixing as he thrust into its touch—_

_Siorus had laughed, but when his eyes met Cullen’s, they were screaming, and Cullen had been screaming too, crying, and he wanted to forget so_ badly _but he_ couldn’t—

Cullen woke up. He was on the ground, knees folded beneath him, face in the snow. His arms were stretched out before him, one shoulder dislocated from its socket. The mage was tying his hands together, he realized.

Cullen’s head was throbbing and bleeding. He’d been slamming it into the ground, he knew. Over and over again, until he woke up. Meredith had been the one to help him stop. Years ago. Years past. Everyone from that time was gone, just like Kinloch – everyone but him.

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” the mage sneered. The red fire was lessened, but still strong enough that he had no trouble lifting Cullen by his bound hands, throwing him over his shoulder. “Shit, you’ve fucking vomited all over yourself. Disgusting.”

Dully, Cullen stared at the ground as the man walked, his head bouncing and throbbing with every step. The enemy had him once again.

He hoped he could find a way to die, before he broke.

~

Things were not going well for his captor.

He stopped once as the valley began to open up, where the forest started and the path turned rough. He tossed Cullen aside, leaving him to groan and turn until he was laying in a way that didn’t hurt as much. Even as he drifted in and out of consciousness, cataloging his many injuries, he kept an eye on the mage, watching him pace and mutter to himself. It occurred to him that he waiting. But no one arrived, and no signal emerged from the distant keep, dark against the sky, lit by the occasional light. Eventually, with a curse, he downed another dose of lyrium and tossed Cullen over his shoulder again.

It was quiet, aside from the bloody rasp of Cullen’s breath and the crunch of snow. Sometimes Cullen thought he could distant, distant voices shouting. From Skyhold, he feared. Were they still fighting? What was happening to his men? What was happening to the Inquisitor? Did she know he was – dare he even begin to hope that she would rescue him? No, he told himself. No. Hope would only slow him down, stop him from doing what he needed to do.

He endured, maintaining consciousness despite his agony, and was rewarded with more of his captor’s frustration as they came upon the enemy’s camp. It had once been a collection of tents and small fires, shielded from view by trees and cliffs. Now, it was naught but wreckage and bodies.

He couldn’t help but laugh quietly, even as he was thrown to the ground again. The mage stomped and raged, swearing, temporarily oblivious to him. With his wavering strength, Cullen propped himself on one elbow, looking over the carnage.

He saw a half-dozen bodies nearby, but it was clear there were more, out of view. Most were mercenaries, a few mages. One had been gutted, another had been set on fire. A third was half-in, half-outside a tent, a shocked look on his face. Cullen couldn’t see how he had died, but he hoped it had been unpleasant. A string for horses was nearby, but the animals had been cut free and chased off.

And a fourth man – Cullen’s chuckle hitched, dying his throat as recognized what he was seeing. A fourth man dangled from a tree, having been caught and hung by bow-string. Dangling from the ends of it were what looked like the ends of a very familiar, very broken, bow.

_It cannot be. . . ._

“This is amusing to you?” the mage demanded. Cullen wrenched his gaze from the dead man, staring up into his captors face. It was twisted with hate. “Of course it is, you little—“

He moved with sudden speed, driving his foot into Cullen’s side. He could only cry out as the force of the kick sent him crashing into a tree. Groaning, he clutched at the ground and drew a shuddering breath. The pain was incredible, but the Inquisitor – Evelyn – she was _here_ —

Cullen fell back against the snow. Just moments ago, he had thought hope to be a weakness. It was clear to him now that he had not been feeling true hope. This feeling, this – _energy_ coursing through him, was the opposite of any weakness he had ever known. And he had known much weakness.

Trembling, Cullen rolled to his knees, and then got one foot beneath him. The mage paced back and forth, expression twitching, first rage, then cold amusement, and then something like fear. Cullen watched him, breath labored, tasting blood in his mouth. Evelyn was nearby. If he could defeat this man, this mage, maybe he could see her again.

Something sailed through the air and crashed into a tree at his enemy’s side. The man startled, lightning leaping instinctively to his hands. He kicked the glass jar carefully, leaning forward to see what it was—

Cullen saw his chance. He leapt forward, tackling the mage, clawing clumsily at his belt. He was so disoriented, in so much pain, that he wasn’t even sure if he’d been successful – the next thing he remembered was hitting the ground, thrown aside by the mage’s unnatural strength. Buzzing filled his ears, and he feared that he was about to pass out. _Not now, don’t collapse now_ —

A heartbeat later, he realized what had caused the buzzing, and flashed a bloody smile. The mage began to scream as he was swarmed by bees and wasps, and Cullen rolled onto his hands and knees. Whatever magic those grenades used that kept the insects from attacking friends was strange, but blessed.

Fumbling, Cullen searched the snow for the fruits of his previous attack. Fire and ice spat from the mages hands, incinerating many of the bees attacking him. They wouldn’t last much longer—

The mage screamed furiously one last time, killing the last of the insects. He turned in enough time to see Cullen necked back the foul, bloody lyrium, still on his knees in the snow. As the empty vial fell from his fingers, his enemy turned upon him, eyes widening with shock and horror—

Cullen had no sword and no shield. He drove his fist into the ground, and summoned a Holy Smite with all the strength the red lyrium had to give. All of his rage, all of his desperation, all of his love for Evelyn powered it; the world went black, then gray, as he emptied himself out. Dimly, he realized that he was shouting. Or perhaps screaming.

The smite, red instead of blue, raced over the small camp in waves, then ripples. It roared noisily at first, like river rapids, before slowing to a trickle. Cullen could hear nothing over his own heartbeat. He looked up at his captor with wide eyes, praying to Andraste for mercy.

The man stared back at him, equally shocked and white-faced. It was a strange moment of . . . almost camaraderie. They were both hoping, but for very different things. The mage moved his lips, looked down at his hands as his magic failed—

And then he collapsed, like a puppet whose strings were cut.

Gulping deep breaths of air, Cullen tried to stand. But he needn’t have bothered. A blessedly familiar dark shape had crept from the shadows, a blade in each hand. The mage rolled onto his stomach, tried to crawl away, wheezing as he tried to shout with a Silenced voice.

Evelyn watched him coldly, every inch Andraste’s Herald, as imperious and fierce as the Maker’s Bride must have been, cutting down her former slavemaster. When Evelyn finally cut his throat, it was with jerky suddenness. She backed away slowly, never turning her back on the enemy, stopping only once she was at Cullen’s side. They watched his former captor die in silence, together.

And then – then it was over. It was finally over.

~

Trembling, Cullen pressed his face to her shoulder, and she turned cradle him carefully. He was weeping. She stroked his face, avoiding his injuries, and wept as well. Pressed forehead to forehead, he took his first clean breath in hours, days . . . years?

The world grew sharp and hot, burning hot. He collapsed as the red fire climbed, felt his body shattering. When he came to, he was on his knees, clutching his head and shouting.

“Cullen!” Evelyn’s ragged voice brought him back to reality. “Cullen, what’s wrong?”

He had been wrong again: this was not hope, but Voidfire. If regular lyrium withdraw was bad, this was – this was worse. So much worse. He had thought he was in pain before, but it was nothing, nothing compared to this. Sense and memory deserted him temporarily, only to return in trickles, flashes of nightmares and memories worse than dreams. His came to on his back, his tongue bitten bloody, Evelyn leaning over him.

“Cullen,” she said, stroking his face. He knew she was, could see the motion of her hands, but couldn’t feel it. He made some small noise and turned over, fumbling clumsily against her legs. The snow melted under his touch, coolness that brought no relief. “Cullen,” she said, sniffling, “it’s over. Relax, please. Hold still—“

The fire returned. He heard Evelyn crying his name, and he hugged her legs, pressing his face to her stomach. He prayed for death to find him.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is incredibly, incredibly delayed! I am so utterly sorry to anyone who was waiting for this, especially those of you who so kindly left comments asking about updates. I have no excuse! :(

Cullen looked like he was dying. And he sounded like it, too.

It was immediately clear that he could not walk. The red lyrium surged and waned in waves, illuminating him from the inside out. She could trace the shadows of his bones beneath his skin – his arm was broken, he kneecap shattered, his ribs torn free of his sternum, and his skull cracked. His face was a bruised and swollen mass, rendering him almost unrecognizable.

Choking back tears and vomit, Evelyn pried him off her waist and went to fetch the horse she had picketed nearby. It was slow going – her left leg was broken, splinted with a tree branch. Without red lyrium to light up her guts, she couldn’t be certain, but she suspected her own ribs were broken, and her belly was a mass of bruises. Internal bleeding, most likely.

She led the horse to Cullen. He was laying on the ground, clutching his head and moaning like the undead. Grimacing, tears streaming steadily down her face, Evelyn removed the horse’s saddle but kept the leather ties and ropes.

She cried out in pain, not bothering to muffle herself, as she hoisted Cullen onto his feet. Some instinct kept him standing once he was upright. She was grateful for the relief, but grieved as he continued to groan, swaying. Unconsciousness would have been kinder.

He did not want to be thrown over the horse’s back. But even in his disoriented state, he did not swing at her, which was just as well. When he’d clasped his hands together before, praying, she had heard him snap his own bones before she forced him to stop. The red lyrium was still in his veins, granting him inhuman strength.

Despite everything, she got him onto the horse’s back and tied into place. He was insensate, animalistic in his pain and confusion. He clearly didn’t know where he was or what was happening to him. It must have felt like he was being tortured. Despite that, he still went quiet when she spoke to him, his battered face following her voice like a blind man’s might.

She paused for a few frantic moments, crying into her clenched fist, and then stood up straight and started to walk. As she guided the horse, leading it back to Skyhold, she talked. When she ran out of reassurances – _it’ll be all right, you’ll be okay, we’ll be there soon, the mages will have you patched up in no time_ – she moved on to other things. Like, _I love you so much, you are so strong, I swear I will make this up to you, and where were your bodyguards, why weren’t you_ safe?

And then, when those words were making her cry too hard to continue, she moved onto the Chant. “Maker, my enemies are abundant,” she recited, raising her voice when Cullen groaned. She feared that he was dying, that she was killing him in her attempts to save him, but she persisted. 

“Many are those who rise up against me,” she said, and paused, fighting sobs and laughter at the irony of that statement. “But my faith sustains me,” she continued, “and I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.”

She breathed deeply. She reached back, touching Cullen’s hand, the unbroken one. He was silent, staring, breath rasping irregularly. She continued.

~

The Iron Bull heard cheering as the last of the assassins were slain. Something about the sound left him furious, utterly enraged, and he put the strength into his arms, pulling another wedged-in stone free. It started a small avalanche, rocks pounding his shins, but he stood tall and ignored the pain.

Sera had slipped from her perch. She didn’t even bother to curse him, clambering back up to the tiny opening near the top of the gate. “No good!” she called. All she could fit out was her arm.

Bull swore. “How much rock is there?”

Varric, on his knees near the bottom of the pile, simply shook his head. “Can’t tell,” he said. “We may need to use explosives.”

“And risk the rest of the wall coming down?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Dorian, Solas, and Vivienne were nearby, using magic to check the wall. They had been directed by Cassandra to strengthen their defenses before helping to clear the entryway. When Bull glanced back at them, he caught Dorian’s agonized glance, and tried to look encouraging. It just earned him a glare and a rude gesture. Oh, well.

“Get the explosives,” Bull finally decided, and Varric hurried off. As he waited for his return, rolling away smaller chunks of wall, he became aware of someone standing nearby. At first he thought it was Cole, and then realized the kid was on top of the pile with Sera, trying to squeeze through.

Whoever they were, they scrambled aside as Bull lifted a boulder over his head and then tossed it aside, towards the middle of the courtyard. Brushing the dust off his hands, Bull was surprised to realize he’d been half-right – it wasn’t Cole, but it was a kid. And like Cole, he looked half-dead.

“Solas!” he bellowed, even as he crouched. “C’mere, _imekari_. Lemme look at that head.”

The boy stepped forward haltingly. Once he was in the torchlight, Bull saw that he was wearing a soldier’s garb. “Sorry about that,” he said, smoothing the kid’s hair back carefully. If the head wound had been critical, he’d already be dead, but it still looked nasty. And he was covered in bruises – had he been trapped in the cave-in? “Looks like you’re _karashok_. My bad. What happened to you?”

Solas finally arrived. As soon as he saw the boy, his hands began to glow with green. He settled them on his shoulders. “The Iron Bull, I believe this is Private Allan.” The boy’s eyelashes fluttered as the healing magic worked. “Cullen’s page, if I am not mistaken.”

“Hm.” Bull turned to look at Cullen’s tower, half-destroyed. “Don’t suppose you were up there when it blew?” he asked.

Allan nodded slowly, green fire spreading from Solas and through his body. He reached out to grab Bull’s harness. Familiar with the dizziness that healing magic caused, Bull steadied him. “Easy, now, _ime – karashok_.”

“The ground,” Allan whispered, and then wet his lips. “I saw—“ He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head.

“You saw?” Bull prompted.

Cole dropped down, landing at Bull’s side. He touched his hand to the kid’s head, and then straightened. “He saw a way out!” he exclaimed, and turned to run up the stairs. 

“Wait, what?” Bull struggled to his feet, grabbing his battleaxe up off the ground. “Dammit, Cole, hold still. Sera, with me!”

~

Halfway to Skyhold: “Though all before me is shadow,” she said, as loudly as she could, “yet shall the Maker be my guide.” She swallowed a handful of snow to quench her thirst and kept moving. Where were the soldiers? Why had no one come looking for them? Were they all dead?

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond,” she said, and trudged onward, step by swaying step. The horse yanked occasionally at her grip, distrustful of the blood-smell clinging to her and the man on its back. She was terrified that it would flee, carrying Cullen away, so she had wrapped the reins around her wrist. If it fled, it would take her with it, dragging her behind like a gruesome carriage of meat and bone.

“For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light,” she recited, addressing the animal briefly. It eyed her with one dark eye, snorting. “And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Cullen stirred, choking and gurgling. Evelyn opened his mouth and made sure his windpipe was clear, but his breath stayed labored. His eyes were, horrifyingly, open despite the swelling and his battered state. Evelyn stroked his uninjured cheek and kept talking.

~

She had reached the last of the Trials, and was shuddering steadily as she recited it, feeling as if she was narrating Cullen’s death – _cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky, rest at the Maker’s right hand_ – when something pricked her ears. She looked up, slow and groggy—

“Commander Cullen!” It was a boy, shouting as he ran, graceless in the deep snow. “Inquisitor!”

It was Cullen’s page, what was his name . . . Allan? He stumbled to a halt before her, marked by dirt and dried blood, but beautifully alive and whole. “Inquisitor!” he cried, and clutched at her carefully, fearful and flinching. “Inquisitor, the Commander, is he—“

“He’s alive.” Her voice came from somewhere, low but strong. Moments like these, when she felt truly out of her head, she almost believed in Andraste. There must be some explanation for how she seemed to see herself from the outside, watching her own mouth move. “The others?”

The boy had been weeping, but he was doing his best to stand tall. “The gate is being cleared of rubble, milady,” he said. His words were formal, but his voice was desperate and lilting, on the verge of tears. As any child would be. “The Iron Bull sent me through first. I’m the smallest. . . . There, there was someone behind me. . . .“

She was frightening him, she realized, with her deathly staring. Cole appeared with his usual suddenness, causing the boy to startle and probably bite his tongue. Evelyn steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, feeling as if she was moving through thick, freezing water.

Cole was bloodstained, but smiling. He caught her arm and said simply, “You aren’t alone.”

It felt, at the moment, like he was talking about Andraste, like he was saying she was there with them, helping her through, keeping Cullen alive. It was perfect and terrible and too much to bear. Evelyn collapsed, her arm yanked upright by the reins tied to her wrist. Others were rushing forward, Sera and Solas in the lead, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t listen. At last, she could let herself sleep.

~

Solas found Cole where he had expected to – at the Inquisitor’s side. He nodded to the spirit-cum-boy, and touched his fingers lightly to the woman’s forehead. She breathed deeply, in a slow healing sleep.

“She will be well, Cole,” Solas said. Hardly necessary, for the two of them to speak aloud, but the rhythm of voice and movement was comforting. In its way. “We will wake her soon.”

Cole was standing beside her bed, arms crossed over his bony but broad chest. He’d begun eating a week ago, reluctant but relenting under Blackwall and the Iron Bull’s cajoling. It had begun to change him – he had lived without food before, but now that he was consuming it regularly, Solas suspected that was no longer possible. After a few meals, he had also begun to eliminate, a process he greeted with a spirit’s natural horror and distaste. Solas had managed not to laugh, remembering his own experiences, and instead assured him that it would become normal.

Ghostly blue eyes watched him. He blinked more, now. That was also new.

“What about Cullen?” Cole asked.

“You know as much as I do.” Solas clasped his hands behind his back. “Once the red lyrium was purged from his system—“

“Lyrium,” Cole interrupted. His face was dark, accusing; Solas met it with a deliberately mild expression, as if they were debating some point of philosophy and Cole wasn’t doing a very good job of it. “You used lyrium. The blue lyrium. You made him drink it. He gagged and thrashed, but you held his nose, poured it down his throat. He _wept_ in front of you.”

Solas dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “We had no choice,” he said calmly.

Cole’s eyes flashed. “There is always a choice,” he snapped, with a mortal boy’s utter assurance. He paused, wavering, and added with less certainty: “You . . . hurt him. He wanted to die.”

Solas was silent a long moment. Cole was a spirit, and although someday he might become a human in truth as well as fact, he would always bear the marks of his origins. It would be a long time before he learned why mortals guarded such knowledge so protectively, why they kept some confidences even when secrets made things worse. Cole wasn’t the only one who had recognized Cullen’s suicidal feelings, although he was the only one – to Solas’ knowledge – who dared speak of them.

“He was so close,” Cole whispered, eyes narrowing in pain. “So close to being free, flying, feeling again. No more fog clouding his mind. And now he is back at the beginning.” He looked down at the Inquisitor, confused and hurting. “The shakes and the dizziness and the dreams will return. He hadn’t realized how terrible they were, until they were gone. He knows what he’s losing, this time.”

Solas bowed his head, watching the Inquisitor for a long moment. “I know, Cole,” he said heavily.

Cole’s voice grew even smaller. “He is afraid of me again,” he almost whispered. “He was starting to trust me, before. But now he sees me and sees a demon.”

A conditioned response, likely, after his experiences in the Ferelden Circle. To those with the ability to sense the otherworldly – such as mages, or those who consumed lyrium – the air around Cole was slightly different. It sang, and shifted, shaping itself to his form. Their Commander, after all, had no positive experiences with beings from the Fade; when he felt that tug, heard that music, he thought _demon_ , on a visceral level that his conscious mind could not combat. It was only to be expected.

“He is strong,” Solas finally said. “Strong to endure, to fail, and then to begin again. To survive this, to fall to the lyrium again, and then to begin weaning himself off immediately afterwards. . . .” Solas shook his head slightly, pondering.

“He is strong,” Cole agreed. “But he _hurts_.”

And Cole, after all, wanted to help. Solas turned from the Inquisitor, venturing for the door. He touched Cole’s shoulder briefly in passing. Unnecessary, between them, but Cole was becoming human, and Solas was . . . himself. Touch was comforting, like voice. And Solas was not completely heartless, after all.

“He will feel better, when the Inquisitor wakes,” Solas assured him, and left him to his vigil.

~

Her last memory was of Cullen, injured and dying. When she entered his office, peeking her head around the doorway, Evelyn was astonished at the sight of him.

He looked . . . completely healthy. Healthier than he had before the assassins attacked, even. She hadn’t realized his eyes were shadowed, face pale and taut, until she saw him like this, in the wake of a lyrium dose. He skimmed through a pile of papers, standing beside his desk with his hand on the hilt of his sword, and he was utterly perfect, a storybook knight come to life.

Until he looked up, meeting her eyes.

Evelyn took a deep breath, blindly crossing the distance between them but stopping on the other side of his desk. Her hands clenched into desperate fists. “Cullen.”

He stood painfully tall, one hand still on his sword, the other falling to his side. His face was almost completely expressionless, a horrible echo of the dark future, except for the cracked, shattered look in his eyes. “Inquisitor,” he said, and his voice was wrong, too, hoarse and scratched. “My lady Herald.”

Cole had told her that Cullen’s throat had bled, scraped raw by the lyrium he’d been forced to ingest. Evelyn lifted her hands, longing to touch his face, but hesitated. “Cullen,” she said again, uselessly, stupidly.

He bowed his head, spine bending briefly as if under a tremendous weight. “Evelyn,” he murmured, and she hurried to his side. For a moment they looked at one another, not moving, and then she decided _bugger the consequences_ and threw her arms around him.

A long, tense beat later, one of his heavy arms wrapped around her. Perfectly steady, no hint of tremor, encased in leather and armor. When she hung on determinedly, his other arm joined the first. It was slow but steady, the pressure he applied to her, until they were both clinging to each other.

Evelyn breath hitched unsteadily, and she had to force herself to move away. Cullen released her instantly, backing away to stare over her head, at the wall, out the window. She caught his hand before he could pull completely away, but he still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Cole told me what happened,” she said quietly, into the silence. “About the lyrium. Cullen—“

“It’s of little consequence,” Cullen said dully, still staring past her. “It won’t affect my performance, my lady. I will do my duty.”

Evelyn tightened her grip. “I know that,” she said waspishly, “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about _you_. Cullen. . . .” He didn’t move, didn’t react. “Will you still . . . keep taking the lyrium? Or . . . ?”

His eyes shifted to look on hers, blazing with sudden fury. “Why wouldn’t I—“ he started, and bit off the rest of his words. “No,” he snapped, freeing his hand from hers, “I will not keep taking it. This is a setback, nothing more. I will not—“

“Cullen,” she said desperately, trying to interrupt, to clarify.

“Nothing has changed,” he said raggedly. “I still refuse to be bound to the Templars. I will not—“ He swept a pile of scrolls from his desk and then stopped, bracing himself against the polished surface. His blond head dipped beneath his shoulders and crest. “Leave me, Inquisitor.”

She felt as if an ice pick had been driven into her heart. “Cullen, I didn’t mean—“

“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, cutting her off with a gesture. He stood straight again, keeping his back to her. His voice was still hard and cold. “I have work to do, my lady. Let me return to it.”

She hesitated, torn between approaching him carefully or running away. “Cullen, I don’t understand. I only wanted to make sure that . . . that you were all right.”

He didn’t look back, didn’t even twitch. “I am fine. Your pet demon could have told you as much.”

It was a clear rebuff. Once, it would have sent her fleeing. But she fancied that she had gotten to know the Commander quite well. She had never seen him act like this before, and it was frightening, and heart-breaking. Perhaps it was folly, or pride, but down deep, she believed that if they could just get past his attempts to push her away, she could help him.

All she said was, quiet and low, “Cole isn’t a demon.”

She saw his fist clench. “So you say.”

Careful to scuff her boots on the stone floor, Evelyn proceeded to his side. As she approached, she realized he’d been staring at his distorted reflection in the window. Her own appearance was twisted, but she knew what she looked like – the red lyrium had healed Cullen, or at least closed his wounds and mended his bones (many of them had been re-broken and re-healed by Solas, according to Cole) but she’d had no such advantage. She was still drawn and pale, bruises fading on her face and arms. Her limp would persist for at least a week.

“You tell me to go,” she said, hushed, reaching for his hand again. His fingers unclenched slowly, warmer than she had expected. “And I will, if you really want me to. But if you don’t. . . .”

She turned, tracing the line of his profile with her eyes. He blinked several times, and then shifted to face her. His little attempt at a smile was so small, so broken, that her hand flew of its own accord to touch his cheek.

“Evelyn,” he said again. Her eyes watered, but she breathed deeply and managed not to cry. “I am . . . terrible company. I don’t want to. . . .” He touched her bruised face and her grip on his fingers tightened, her body screaming for him to be close, closer. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She exhaled, brow furrowing. “Hurt me? Cullen, you never have. Why would you. . . ?” His eyes searched hers, and understanding dawned. “You think you did this? Any of this? Cullen, no!”

His brow furrowed as well, but in frustration and rage – all of it directed inward. “Why shouldn’t I?” he demanded. “I remember almost nothing of that night. That red lyrium . . . it makes men into monsters. And I took it!” He pulled away, threading his hand through his hair and then clenching it into a fist. “ _Why_ did I take it?” he half-shouted. “Why did I do such a—“ 

He fell silent, rocking a bit, back and forth.

Evelyn refused to let him hide away. She pursued and rested her hands on his back, hoping he could feel some part of her touch through his armor. “If you hadn’t, we would be dead,” she said. “I had no bow, and no way to fight a mage who had been taking red lyrium.” He turned slowly to gaze at her, eyes widening. “When I saw that he had you . . . he kicked you.” She touched his side. “You flew several feet. I’ve never seen anything that strong, except maybe a giant, or a dragon. He was going to kill you. I had a single grenade left. . . .”

Cullen’s hands moved slowly to grip her shoulders, not quite a hug, but enclosing her in warmth nonetheless. “I threw it, and hoped I could get close enough to attack him.” Irritated with herself, she swiped a few errant tears away. “But my leg was broken. I couldn’t move fast enough. And then you used a Templar spell—“ She looked at him, half-expecting him to explain which one.

He just shook his head. He didn’t remember.

Evelyn touched his jaw, his cheek. “You saved both of us,” she told him. His eyebrows shifted, gaze flickering as he thought that over. “Cullen, what in the world did you think happened? If not that?”

His eyes returned to fasten on hers. “I wasn’t certain,” he admitted. He caught her free hand and held it carefully, gently. He wasn’t wearing his gloves. “I thought . . . they forced it upon me. No, I told the others that. But I feared . . . I believed that I had taken it. That I had given in.”

She shook her head, mute in the face of such wrongness.

Cullen seemed somewhat reassured, but there was still a powerful bleakness in his eyes. “I’m still,” he started, and then tried again, “I still have to—“

“I know,” she interrupted. Her throat was choked with tears, but she trusted that her voice was reassuring. Cullen pressed his cheek into her hand, at least. “It will be all right. We’ll do it together.”

His eyes closed briefly. “This is something I have to do alone, Evelyn.”

Her heart lurched, her hand trembling. “Do you . . . should I leave, then?”

His eyes flew open. “What? No! Maker, Evelyn—“

She smiled wryly, moving closer as his hand tightened on her shoulder, his other gripping hers tight. “All right,” she soothed. “I won’t leave. I promise I won’t.” She stroked his cheek, remembering how bloody and bruised he had been, and then ran her hand carefully through his hair, smoothing it back into place. “I’m here for you, Cullen. Whatever you need.”

His sad eyes dipped briefly to her lips, and then up. “It will be some time,” he said quietly. “Before I am . . . well.”

Before they could begin a relationship, she realized. Was that what he had been waiting for? She wanted to throw her arms around him, tell him he was being foolish, but it was his decision. And despite his healthy appearance, his eyes were full of pain and exhaustion, and she was starting to feel shaky after a short time on her feet. She had no energy to push, and it would be wrong of her to do so. Although the thought of denying herself his presence made her want to scream. . . .

“I understand,” she murmured. Carefully, she slipped an arm around his metal-clad waist, resting her cheek the silk and fur covering his chestplate. “Is this okay, though?”

He wrapped himself around her, tight and close. “Yes,” he whispered into her hair. She swore she felt him smile, just a little, leaning into her as she leaned into him. “Yes,” he repeated, and she closed her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I was originally planning a third part in this series, but I don't remember what the plot was, so unless I'm struck by inspiration, the story will end here.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who left comments, or kudos, or just who read in silence -- you are all wonderful! <3


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